I live on The Edge. 

My home is on the edge —where the prairie meets the forest. Here, the Sandhills border farmlands. Wildlife and domestic cross along the same game trails.

I climb to the top of the sandstone buttes behind my home. There, I can see far to the north, more than 50 miles, where the Black Hills reach high in shadows of blue and purple.

On our butte, at its edge, there is comfort. However, I fear heights, not because I will fall, but because I will jump. 

I know that I shouldn’t. I know this will end the body, but a part of me says that my spirit can fly, just like the birds.

I don’t have any intention of suicide or death. I want to fly and soar into the unlimitedness of our surroundings. My breath. My air.

The flight would mean defiance of the rules of physics. I kind of like that. A stand is taken that what we believe is purely an illusion. 

If flight was my intention, I could easily navigate between here and there. I would transport myself back and forth high above the edge of the here and hereafter. 

There is a cliff near my house, with an elevation nearly 500 feet higher than my home. Here, the winds howl across the landscape of sandstone buttes and stunted ponderosa pine. Pink phlox dot the outcroppings of hard-pack dirt and rocks. Yellow and green lichen turn rusty orange as the sun feeds the ancient organism. 

I like it up here. My heart beats faster after the strenuous hike up the winding trails traversing the steep incline. For the last ten feet, I must pull myself up over broken edgings of rocks and sand, loose from the winter’s ice. 

But it is late Spring now, and the heat of Summer will soon scorch the ground, making this hike undoable for me. I used to climb here often, but I take the journey more seriously at this age, and three hip replacements later. 

When I reach the top, standing above the low-lying prairie, I forget the humanness of my being. 
The wind rushes up between the arms of the canyon walls below to greet me on top of the world—the edge of here and there. 

I am alone.

And yet, I am surrounded by the immenseness of creation. 

The edge is the sharpest here. The thread that holds me between my spiritual and physical is made of a Herculean fiber. Indestructible, it keeps me secure, holding me back from breaking free into flight. 

This is where they come from. To sit with me and share their insights and measured stories. Our conversations can last a microsecond or hours. Telepathically, we merge, engage, and share.

At times, moments stretch for days. In a blink of an eye, a lifetime of experiences. Awakening. I open into worlds beyond the cliff’s edge, further than I can soar. And then I return. All within a note, a birdsong, a night hawk’s cry, or a cricket’s chirp. 

The edge is where I walk between worlds of space and creation. 
I listen for the beckoning, venturing forward, watching for signs, and hearing the calls of the others who walk this course. 

Many are waiting to present themselves and offer an essence of their light. It might be a note for a loved one, a gift of hope for another, or a piece of news someone home may wish to know. 

Walking the edge is where I belong –remain tethered between worlds drifting over one side to the other, bringing their messages home.   

My flight lessons will have to wait.